


Doggin' My Soul

by kalymnos



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-04
Updated: 2012-07-04
Packaged: 2017-11-09 04:02:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/451035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalymnos/pseuds/kalymnos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For most of the year, Serena Williams is extroverted, vivacious; living life in the same tenacious, unsustainable way Rafa Nadal scurries back-and-forth behind the baseline. With Sam, however, it's a different story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doggin' My Soul

_December 10th, 2011  
Cape Tribulation, Queensland  
Australia_

 

The thing is, Sam knows a different Serena.

 

Sam clicks open a fat, red marker and carefully circles two important dates on the calendar hanging from the fridge. She counts the days between them again, once more just in case she didn't add them up right the twelve times previously. She sighs, finding no more extra hours. It had been a battle to find even this short time, and though it would never seem enough, it had to be.

Eight days. 

A cockatoo screech startles her, and she takes a step back, re-caps the pen lid. Sam glances at the oven clock, and feels her stomach lurch. She clenches her fists at her sides and fights the nervous tremor working its way through her system. They've done this before, a few snatched weekends allowed by injury periods or breaks between tournaments, but every time is different . More runs between them now, and Sam allows herself the brief, terrifying thought that maybe this time they won't be able to find their way back to each other.

A second later, her body springs into action, dismissing the notion before it can take paralysing hold. She pulls ingredients from the cupboards and makes a quick pasta sauce, setting it on low to simmer. Quickly washing up and wiping down all the kitchen benches, she goes to check the other rooms. There's nothing out of place, not a jacket or a gym towel or a stray receipt, and she takes a deep breath.

The waiting game leaves her feeling on-edge and sapped of energy at the same time. She sits at the kitchen table, flipping through magazines her housekeeper left without reading anything, her mobile phone held tight in sweaty palms. She stares at the front door intermittedly and tenses as if to brace herself, but her small lodge in the Daintree stays quiet.

At quarter to five, she rises and takes to the stairs to complete the last item on her list.

*

At five-oh-five, a door knock sounds. 

Sam reaches the door and takes a moment to compose herself. She is well-prepared, she is calm, she is in control. She takes a firm grasp of the door handle, pulls it towards her – 

and in the second it takes to meet Serena's hopeful eyes, Sam feels her anxiety wash away like rain.

"Hi Sam," says Serena brightly, her brash tone undercut by her fidgeting hands, her foot tapping against the bags at her feet. 

Sam takes a moment and just looks, trying to get a quick read on Serena's emotions and register signs of unease. The last time they saw one another was the US Open final. Once she's done, Sam crosses her arms and says firmly, "You're late."

Serena sucks in a quick breath, her eyes widening. "I know! I just – we were delayed on the tarmac, and then my cab driver couldn't find the lodge, and god, this place is gorgeous but it's way out in the middle of nowhere, how did you ever find it –"

"No more," Sam interrupts her rambling, raising her hand to place two fingertips against Serena's lips.

For a few moments, they stare at each other. Sam tries to concentrate against the warmth of Serena's breath ghosting against her skin; tries to let go of the hardness and convey with imploring eyes, are you sure? and, is this still okay?

Serena relaxes a fraction then, lips stretching into a relieved smile as she whispers, "Sorry," and places a small kiss against Sam's fingertips. It's all the reassurance Sam needs – that and the twin knowledge that one), Serena knows the word that will end all of this, knows it upside-down and backwards, and two), no-one could ever make Serena Williams do anything less than what she absolutely wanted.

Sam steps back, opens the door fully and nods toward the stairs, smoothly stepping into a skin she rarely wears but cherishes, feeling the familiar ruffles as it sweeps over her consciousness. "You know what to do," she says matter-of-factly. 

Hefting bags into her arms, Serena steps past her, dropping her luggage just inside the doorway and slipping out of her sandals. With a quick glance around the living room, she shrugs out of her jacket and lets it fall to the polished timber floor. Sam watches intently, notes the infinitesimal hesitation as Serena then lifts her arms, unwraps the pale blue scarf from around her shoulders and drops it, too, in a whisper of satin.

This part of the ritual is always taken slowly, painstakingly. Serena takes to the stairs, climbing steadily and peeling away items of clothing one-by-one. Sam trails a few steps behind her, bare feet echoing on hollow stairs; she's hanging back a few feet from touching distance so as to not tempt herself and betray the implicit trust, the not yet hanging precariously between them. 

At the top of the stairs, dressed only in her bra and underwear, Serena turns and finds the bathroom. The room is wide and generous, day beds and lounges to one side; on the other, wall-to-wall east-facing windows offering an unguarded view of the dense rainforest canopy, a reminder of their complete and total isolation together. 

Serena comes to a rest in front of the bath and waits. Coming up behind her, Sam presses herself against Serena's back and lets her feel her presence, solid and unwavering. The touch feels almost too good to relinquish, but Sam makes herself move back a half-step before the rhythm and flow of movement is disrupted. Gently, she reaches out and trails the backs of her hands from the base of Serena's spine up, up, up to her bra straps. She then carefully unclasps the hook and shimmies the straps down and off. Serena stands strainingly still throughout it all, and Sam licks an agonisingly slow, wet stripe from one shoulder blade to the other in praise.

Sinking to her knees, Sam rests her hands on Serena's ankles, squeezing in warning before beginning the long slide up smooth skin, over shins, knees, thighs and hips to rest just on the line of her underwear. She slips her knuckles under the elastic, and, with a deep inhale herself, drags the cotton down until Serena can step out of them.

The bathwater is still lukewarm, Sam finds as she stands and dips her fingers in, not too hot for the muggy heat of the Queensland tropical summer. The row of scented candles she'd lit previously cast a warm glow over the light layer of foam, and it looks so inviting Sam aches to climb in as well, but she dampens the urge. This is not about her.

"Here you go," she says lowly, reluctant to break the silence. Taking Serena's hand, she guides her to step into the bathtub and lie down against the headrest. Sam makes herself comfortable kneeling on a bed of towels, the sleeves of her long t-shirt rucked up to her elbows. 

Like always, once she's settled, Serena lets her eyes fall shut, but Sam knows better than to take offence. She smiles privately to herself, content to allow Serena the last of her modesty for the time being, and reaches for the washcloth. 

Sam takes her time washing her. They won't fuck until later tonight, so this is the main event of the afternoon. It's a chance to wash off not just the travel grime, but the months apart. There's not an inch of Serena that Sam doesn't caress, softly, reverently, and she admits to herself that it's satisfying a craving on her part too, to reacquaint, to remember, to worship again the breathtaking beauty before her, _for_ her.

As she rubs cleanser gently around Serena's face, Sam watches in awe as the tension gradually drains away from the muscles, as lines around her eyes and mouth soften and fade in relaxation. She lets the cloth float away, and touches her bare fingertips to Serena's cheek.

Serena's eyes flutter open. They fight to focus, and Sam thinks she might have been close to sleep. Eventually, they latch onto Sam, and the depth of emotion nearly knocks Sam over. It's everything she's feeling, reflected: trust and honesty and affection and the burning edge of lust. 

Sam doesn't hesitate; she just leans in and cups Serena's jaw, presses her lips against Serena's and kisses her deeply, swallows her moans and returns her love.

(Because there's love there, too.)

*

They've been playing like this for nearly two years now. Sometimes it's about sex; other times Serena can't bring herself to let go and relinquish control, and they spend their time playing uno and never lose more than their coats. 

It happened accidentally, to begin with. They'd been fucking for a few months, starting back when Serena showed up out of the blue to visit Sam when she'd been sick, armed with a bunch of flowers and a not-so-subtle hint in the form of two crates of cheap paperback romances. And the sex had been good, even with all the painkillers Sam was throwing back. 

They'd been fooling around one night during the US Open, tipsy and laughing together, when they'd fumbled into their first mild power play and rode it out together. And it'd been _amazing._

When Serena suggested that they maybe consider continuing, though, with more structure and explicit boundaries that could be pushed, Sam threw a veritable hissy fit, point-blank refusing to take part when she'd had no experience in dominance before. Privately, it was more that being responsible for something so precious scared the living shit out of her. But charming, convincing, needling Serena almost always got her way, never swallowing an answer she didn't like. She'd lie belly-up on her own schedule, thank you very much, and on hers alone.

And Sam surrendered. The surprise was, she soon found herself flourishing in the role.

*

Now, they sit outside on the patio lounges, legs intertwined, listening to the sounds of the rainforest as they eat the pasta Sam cooked earlier. It's peaceful and serene, and Sam wishes she could capture this moment and freeze it. 

After a while, Serena begins to fidget unconsciously. Sam notices, and it takes her a second to figure it out. Without a word, she dislodges a cushion and drops it to the ground. When she looks back up, Serena's watching her, almost like she can't believe what she's being offered. 

Sam smiles encouragingly. When she agreed to this, one of her strongest stipulations was that there would be no kink-shaming. Tentatively, Serena shuffles forward to the edge of the lounge and folds herself down to sit on the cushion by Sam's feet. She backs up to rest her head against Sam's thigh, a hand wrapped loosely around Sam's ankle.

They go back to eating their dinner.

Then later: 

"It's good," Serena says quietly, into the silence, the first words she's spoken since crossing the threshold of the lodge, and Sam startles. "The pasta, I mean. It's really good, Sam." She looks up almost shyly, offers a sweet, hesitant smile. "I, uh. I like when you cook for me."

Sam feels the corners of her mouth quirk up, sliding a hand through Serena's hair to rest at the base of her neck, and knows that the pasta is the least of what Serena's actually referring to. Contemplates how lucky she is.

Because the thing is, Sam knows a different Serena.


End file.
